


there is no such thing as a real name!

by zeejacks



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Identity Crisis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Michael-centric, Misgendering, Trans Character, anyway there's not enough michael whump and i'm here to change that!!!, can't remember if jon knew about the entities before michael got the boot, could be read as pre-slash or nah, except elias, gender euphoria, no one in tma is cis okay, uhhh vague timeline but... maybe season 4-ish if mag101 had never happened?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeejacks/pseuds/zeejacks
Summary: michael doesn't remember if he was told he "didn't look like a michael" before michael shelley became the distortion. he doesn't know if he feels anything about this. he doesn't know a lot of his feelings.
Relationships: Michael & Jonathan Sims, Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 149





	there is no such thing as a real name!

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in two consecutive nights, fueled by love for michael and identity crisis vibes and gender euphoria vibes. i also figured out that to write him i just gotta project the HELL outta my adhd. he's just really relatable, okay???  
> the wip title was, "FOAMING AT THE MOUTH GRRR GRRR I LOVE MICHAEL HHHHRHRRRRGH". my boyfriend made it so that i cannot stop imagining it in a voiceover pete voice. help

Michael never could quite remember what it was about the patterns of speech that he was missing out on. When it was brought to the front of his mind, it was like a forgotten word was on the tip of his tongue-- some mild wonder at what could be slipping his grasp. Overall, he wasn’t too bothered. Whether the fear he caused was at all related or not, he certainly didn’t care. If his “eerie” words and laugh helped his victims spiral into a terror-crazed state, all the better! That didn’t stop him from entertaining the question, though, mulling it over and probing it until the concept was violated and dissected for his spacey self to contemplate. He hypothesized that it might’ve been what people called a filter. He could understand filters. Words can be made into both sharp and directing tools, played off the lips to distort the situation. Discretion was simply necessary; careful placement of seeds. Filters were his forte, in that sense.

No, what he finally suspected was filters for other intentions. His guesses were rocky at best at what those intentions could be. In the occasion that Michael would find himself conversing with something outside of trying to twist their world, he barely had a single thought that he didn’t voice. What point was there? He never had any motivation to hide any of his wishy-washy opinions or decisions. Rarely was there a topic that he couldn’t just spill his reactions out to, all pouring from his semi-corporeal throat like an intoxicating song.

There was one notable case, though, that struck him as odd. The reason it was brought to his attention in the first place at all. He wasn’t one for _filters_ in a casual sense-- it’s not like he particularly cared to spare any feelings. The strangest part of the problem was that it seemed to be recurring. Should someone comment, as many often did, along the lines of, “You don’t _look_ like a Michael,” his mind halted. Something coursed through where his chest would be that was akin to… possibly frustration? Similar to when a wanderer in his corridors lasted just too long for his liking. When someone would escape his notice and drift just a tad too close to his Door. When his thoughts were plagued with Gertrude Robinson. When his thoughts were pulled to Michael Shelley. Whether imperceptible or not, he couldn’t help but pause before opening his mouth in return.

“Michael is… what one could label myself as, yes.”

“It _is_ a real name.”

“Looks are _deceiving_.”

He said many things. He could say many more. But when he drifted consciousness, idly browsing various eavesdropping doorways, he thought about what he actually _wanted_ to say. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, though, not exactly. Wants and feelings were not his strong suit as of late. Or as of _ever_. Or as of never? Time was as fickle as the mindless words he was accustomed to dripping from his mouth. He thinks he might have been good with feelings, or at least better, some time long ago. Or some time long in the future. It all washed together and he didn’t care to decipher any truths from his memories. That would be quite against his nature. 

In his current memories, or what he might have called the present, he floated upside down, in the center of the Magnus’ archives. His faded yellow door had long since swung closed with a steady creak in its place within a nearby bookshelf. He grinned at the desk a foot in front of his face. The illusion of twisting everything around him, making the ceiling look like the floor and making gravity contort itself, brought a glee to him. 

The Archivist was squinting at him. Michael wondered if he had misplaced his glasses for all the struggle he seemed to exhibit with looking at Michael. He expressed this. The Archivist’s face did not change as he dryly pointed out that, no, his glasses were in front of his eyes as always. Michael shrugged, a vague approximation of body rippling under skin. He was not one to notice such trivial things. He said this as well and the Archivist rolled those _knowing_ , squinting eyes at him. Michael then did notice that the eyes stopped their squinting. He did not voice this, as he did not care.

“Why are you here, Michael?” As he asked this, the Archivist’s voice did not push against his very being in the greedy compulsion that he so freely wielded. Michael might have appreciated this; he was relatively sure he must have told the Archivist how uncomfortable the Beholding’s touch made the Distortion. If he did appreciate it, he forgot to register it. 

“Oh… Is it so hard to conceive that perhaps, I could simply wish to visit you, Archivist?”

“Yes.”

“And why ever would that be, Archivist? Don’t hold yourself in such low opinion! I am not, as you know, tied to the _Lonely_ … a dreadful existence that would be. Could you truly not believe that you hold better company than my alternatives?” Michael’s voice went up and down in time with his hand gestures as he drawled this, changing volume significantly and yet remaining the same volume. The Archivist had once squinted at this like he squinted at Michael just now, but must have grown desensitised. Michael couldn’t say he was disappointed at the loss of the Eye pressing to _know_ him. The Archivist hummed in thought. 

“Well… again, I’d say yes, but considering what your _alternatives_ might imply, I’m… not sure. What do you want? Specifically?”

“Archivist, oh Archivist, you watch but you do not listen! I have already told you. What I want is to visit you.”

“Oh, okay, well don’t be too scuffed if a floating, knife-hands… _being_ pops by and my first thought isn’t, ‘Oh! He must be by for tea!” The Archivist rolled his eyes again. Michael wondered how much they could roll around like that before they began to grow sore. Maybe Michael could discover that some day. Then, in less than a second, the audio part of his brain caught up with the visual part, and he flipped right-side up in a dizzying flurry. The Archivist jumped minutely but Michael didn’t focus enough to see it. Instead, he folded himself into a jumble of faux bony, disproportionate limbs, and sat himself in the guest chair across from the desk. His knees were brought close to his torso and his arms and fingers wrapped around his body multiple times over in a show of disconcerting, although expected, flexibility. His eyes were unnaturally large as he stared into the Archivist. His mind was unreadable, and he guessed his face was as well. No words were exchanged for a few seconds, despite Michael willing himself to speak. “Are you… alright?” The Archivist finally tried, quiet and confused, but it was loud in the silence and surprise. 

“You changed it,” was the first sentence Michael was able to form. There was another pause as the Archivist’s eyes tried to decide whether to drink in Michael’s strange posturing, or to shift away in discomfort. 

“Changed… what?” Had Michael been listening for it, he would have heard the suppression of compulsion in the question. He would have appreciated it, but he was not listening for it. 

“ _It_.”

“Oh… ‘kay? Very helpful, Michael.”

“No,” his voice held an almost urgency that caused the Archivist to tilt his head, “ _‘it_ …’ You always say ‘ _it_.’ You did… not?” The Archivist sighed heavily. 

“You’ve got to give me more than that.” He received the same static stare. Michael forgot to blink, his mouth on the verge of opening to say more. Another silence stretched and the Archivist developed a pinched, frowny face. Michael understood its meaning just about as well as he understood how to explain himself. “Would it help if… Would it help if I _asked_?” 

Something deep in Michael instantly screamed against the very idea, but for once he waited to speak. He thought about the offer-- really _thought_ \-- and didn’t break eye contact with the offerer once. 

“Only this, Archivist?” He didn’t mean to phrase it like it was a question. It came off as airy and loose like his voice always did, but he had a suspicion that the Archivist _knew_ . He would respond with anger if not for the fact that the Archivist’s _knowing_ also allowed him the lack of an explanation. His winding thoughts were too lost to coherently communicate genuine anxiety. He didn’t want to deal with any feelings, especially not the embarrassment of explaining just how much he feared the invasive quality of the Archivist digging inside the head he didn’t have. 

“Only to… _help_ you… speak, that is.” Michael nodded, his mass of velvety hair bobbing up and down, spiraling in and out of wide coils. “Okay,” the Archivist breathed, “Uh… **what’s wrong?** ”

“You… you called me-- referred to me as ‘he.’” His words came quick, and the almost-stutter painfully shoved even harder at the feelings from a past he kept a tight lock on. Everything about this was _too similar_ . Too similar to what he once was… no, what someone else had been before he was _him_. Dwelling on it, Michael was horrified to find that he couldn’t quite grasp what he was thinking. That was nothing new, of course, but he usually had a somewhat stable, if not messy, view on who he was and wasn’t in regards to Michael Shelley. But here, sitting at the Archivist’s desk and compelled to disclose feelings he thought had been long abandoned, he almost referred to Michael Shelley as “I” in his mind. 

“Shit,” Michael distantly might have noted that that was the first time he had heard the Archivist curse, as if that had any meaning to Michael. “Did I misgender you?” Michael blinked at him, a pointed motion he didn’t typically bother with. “I-- I mean, I guess I assumed you wouldn’t be one to care too much about that kind of stuff, but I shouldn’t assume stuff like that, God, of course I shouldn’t, and-- and if I did misgender you, then… well, I don’t want to, I guess, so. Sorry? I am sorry. Michael?”

Michael blinked again. He watched the Archivist’s eyes, which he caught glancing down exactly twice during his ramble. The old scars on Michael’s exposed chest curled upwards in a way that they hadn’t originally been, at least not as pronounced as they were now. They ventured into small swirls at the ends, and the pale pink he thinks they might have shown at some point shifted gradually across the color spectrum without his intention. Michael didn’t need to look to know the Archivist was looking at them. He didn’t need to be able to _know_ to see that the Archivist was connecting dots, and fast. 

“No, you did not, Archivist,” he said lightly, the familiar dreamy tone finding its way back into his voice as his mind raced ever so slightly less. “As a matter of fact I do believe it was the… antithesis.” It was the Archivist’s turn to blink owlishly at him. Then he bristled and rambled with a renewed vigor.

“Wait, so I was misgendering you every _other_ time? Jesus, Michael, I know we’re not exactly what you’d call close, hell if we’re even ‘friends,’ but you should’ve told me! I don’t _love_ you but I’m not a complete dick!” Michael simply shrugged with a subdued energy. 

“I think… I did not know? I do not know what I don’t know. It blurs when it mixes with _him_.”

“Him?” 

“Michael Shelley. The one who was to become _me_ . The one whom I once… was? No, that can’t be right… The one whom I was to be cultivated from. _He_ had many feelings about pronouns. I do not know if I have those feelings. How does one tell, Archivist, if it… if he has feelings?” The Archivist puzzled over this for some time, he thinks. He wasn’t the best with keeping track of time. He had endless patience for short eternities. 

“I am… not the best person to ask, Michael,” he answered softly, but not without a mirthless humor. “But, for the record, I think you do? I can’t believe I’m saying this but… I mean, would you be wondering if you had feelings if you didn’t feel _something_ driving you to wonder?” Michael took his opportunity to spend a while before speaking, studying the Archivist. It felt somewhat fitting that the only good advice Michael could fathom coming from the Archivist was based on the hunger for knowledge. It did surprise him just a small amount, though, that the Archivist held any opinion of Michael that wasn’t in contempt. To theme, he questioned if he felt anything about this, but put it to the side to entertain when he wasn’t mid-conversation. 

“I suppose you may have a point, Archivist.” They two stayed quiet again, but it wasn’t as painful as the previous times. Michael clicked his mouth open and closed as he decided on what to say. His pupils spiralled tight as his gaze wandered around in thought. “I do believe that this may tie into the… rather unpleasant predicament of being said that I do not ‘seem like a _Michael_.’ Do I look like a Michael to you? He cared much about names. I do not know if I care about them.”

“Well… that would certainly make sense,” the Archivist half-mumbled, “I can’t answer that for you. If it’s any consolation, I think you only don’t look like a _Michael_ because you don’t look like an _anyone_. You’re kinda,” he made a vague waving motion, “a lot.” Michael frowned, the edges curling down almost unnaturally so to form a pout.

“Even so, I do not like it. It is too similar to… something from _him_. Some feeling from him. I do not like it. It is not a good… feeling.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that… also makes sense. A lot. I mean, you picked your name yourself, didn’t you?” 

“I…” One long fingertip came to tap against Michael’s lip in thought, “Yes, I did. I don’t… people were quite rude before… but I do not remember if they believed I did not _seem like a Michael_ before I became the Distortion…” 

The Archivist moved to say something, but stilled. Michael watched his brow furrow and his mouth half-open. 

“Wait-- wait, hold on, you said,” the Archivist searched for words as his gaze searched for answers, “ _Michael_?” The squinty eyes were back. Michael cocked his head to one side, just slightly too far to look healthy, and shifted the bones in his fingers like a wave of anticipation. 

“Yes, Archivist?”

“You were just-- you talked like you _were_ Michael Shelley? Which, frankly, makes perfect sense, but you just don’t… normally you don’t--” 

“What?” Michael interrupted his rambling harshly. His voice traveled across the air like sharp angles, making the Archivist flinch when they cut his ears. “No, I did not.” 

“... Ah, yes, you did. You uh… you said ‘ _I_ ’ when you were, ah…” He faded out at the enraged-adjacent look on Michael’s face. His eyes had grown impossibly moreso to an unnaturally large size, the edges shifting without actually moving. Life and flow in the room seemed to come to a complete halt, save for the clenching and unclenching of pointed coils in Michael’s amorphous hair. It was like every object, every atom, every molecule was holding its breath. The tension built in the reality around them as it did in Michael’s expression. 

All at once, the tension shattered. Michael’s face went through a journey as he let out a decidedly strained, long laugh. The pitch was higher than when he laughed comfortably. He noticed this, and then noticed that he was surprised that he had noticed. The cackle went on, almost covering the way his breath hitched. It distressed him further to come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t keep his inhales steady-- he didn’t even _have_ lungs. His eyes darted about, only putting brief focus on the other side of the desk. He didn’t know if the Archivist caught on to any of it. He hoped not. There were too many thoughts in his mind to put any into deciphering the Archivist’s body language. He had a growing list of things he desperately willed the Archivist’s watchful eye not to gaze upon. 

He unwrapped a hand from where it hugged his body, bringing it up and fidgeting with his hair. The swirls fell between and through his many, many joints, pulsing with each peal of quickly dissipating laughter. His eyes no longer rested on the Archivist at any point, more often looking to the side and setting their sights on some distortion only he could see. With the face-splitting grin only shakily holding up, he felt a quiet hatred for his inability to disappear. Maybe being an avatar of the Lonely wouldn’t be as awful as he had previously said. 

“Maybe… maybe so.” His inhale sounded so full it almost came across as a gasp. “I do not _want_ to _be_ Michael Shelley. Part of me does not want it. But sometimes… I think I am Michael, Archivist, and I don’t know how to tell the difference.” He wanted to say more, to let his thoughts release from his fuzzy head and solidify into a flood of reality. His voice prevented him from doing so. He risked a glance at the Archivist, looking for any indication that he had heard Michael’s throat choke up. The pinched, furrowed expression was revisiting from before. Michael thought it might have been the same one that he had worn when he asked Michael what was wrong. He turned his head to the side and let his hair curl inwards and around him, hoping the push of his fingers would allow it to obscure his uncontrolled trembling lips. He aimed for another, shorter laugh, but he was afraid it came out rather strangled. Even hidden in his hair and folded up into the feeble chair, Michael loomed over the Archivist’s height. It did not stop him from feeling disgustingly small.

He was too distracted in containing whatever show of distress was trying to make itself known to really register the scrape of a chair against the floor. It was when the hand, all rough and scarred, outstretched itself towards him that he finally looked to the other. Blurry fractals filled his vision and made it hard to make out the Archivist. Michael was adept at peering at the world through a filter, though. The hand stayed a brief distance from his face. 

“What…?” He said in an unwelcomely quiet voice. It echoed off of his muscles, shaking with the effort to keep a lid on the _everything_ he was feeling. 

“Do you… Can I, uh, touch you… ? As a comfort thing-y?” The Archivist said in a tone almost as uncertain as Michael’s. “That’s-- that’s what you’re supposed to do, uh, I think, but I get that you don’t always do stuff like you’re… supposed to.” Michael’s wobbly gaze went between his face and his hand. 

“Do what you will, Archivist,” he said. Resignation carried through his words as it did in his posture, his shoulders rising defensively and his hair blanketing his gradually cracking face. 

The feeling of someone else’s touch was jarring. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he had felt it, outside of stabbings, and he had a suspicion that it wasn’t due to his dubious-at-best lucidity. The Archivist rested his hand on Michael’s mass of hair first, brushing through it with a tentative motion. He sort of pat Michael’s head, which was only a little awkward from his position, leaning against his desk. Michael laughed humorlessly at the gentle panic on the Archivist’s face. The laugh didn’t last long. It delved into a series of breathless inhales, and Michael covered his face with more of his hand. 

Despite this, he stopped breathing for a moment when the Archivist drew closer, wrapping his own arms hesitantly around Michael’s heaving form. He focused in on the Archivist, who seemed to have stopped breathing as well. The hug wasn’t good, by any means. Michael could feel regret just pushing at the edges of it, the fear seeping from the Archivist at the realization of how dangerous his impulsive decision had been. He felt that the Archivist was close to backing out of it. He lifted his hands away from himself and unsurely held the Archivist in place. It was… wrong, and unpracticed, but Michael had at least the forethought to close his fingers into fists to prevent slicing the other into strips. And then, in a rush of energy and a desperation for distraction from the thoughts circling his mind, Michael pulled the Archivist in and tightened the grip. It was strange to strive for something grounding. It was _unnatural_ to him, as the Distortion. But some part of him felt like a hole was at least attempted to be filled. Some part of him that he found too easy to push down, excluding moments of weakness like this. Some part of him he wanted to abandon, like it was accustomed to. 

They stayed stiff like that for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. The Archivist didn’t quite let his guard down-- a good choice, Michael thought-- and neither did Michael. Though, the Archivist did move a hand back up to pet Michael’s twisting rivulets of hair, and Michael did let himself make humiliatingly vulnerable noises into the collar of the Archivist’s shirt. When they did part, Michael felt cold in a way he didn’t understand. He wasn’t affected by temperature. His fingers and hair curled around his exposed torso. The Archivist appeared to mimic this, his own much more rational and proportionate limbs hugging themselves across his midsection. Michael stood to his full height without meeting the Archivist’s piercing eyes. 

“Michael?” He said when Michael’s rough yellow door audibly swung open behind them. 

“Yes, Archivist?”

“Are you…” His words dissolved as they finally made eye contact again, neverending spirals and neverending seeking. “Nevermind.”

“Not like you to resist asking a question, Archivist,” Michael topped the observation off with a gentle laugh. The Archivist’s body relaxed in spots Michael didn’t realize were tense. He simply shook his head and walked back to his side of the desk. Michael took this as a cue to leave, turning and stepping into the doorway. He didn’t look back as he did so, though he did shoot the Archivist a glance. He didn’t remember when he had stopped flinching at Michael’s laughs.


End file.
